Courier Siv
by ToxicCosmos
Summary: Siv is no stranger to the dangers of the wastes; he's dealt with it his entire life. Having first run with a gang, then having worked as a courier, it's safe to say he's seen some shit. But all that experience wasn't enough to prepare him for what was about to happen. He wanted to live a quiet life, but fate would interfere.


**Chapter 1: A Wise Man Once Patched Up My Fuckin' Head**

Siv stood in the bathroom, one hand on the sink before him, bracing himself as he leaned in to get a better look in the mirror. He'd been staring at himself for several minutes now, tracing the slightly raised scar on the side of his head. It was barely visible. Hard to believe there had been a bullet in there.

"I think that's as well as it's gonna heal." He heard Doc Mitchel say from the bathroom door.

"Shiiit." Siv replied, grinning at him through his reflection. "I'll take it."

The Doc laughed. "Well, come on then. I've got some things for you before you leave."

Siv nodded, grin still in place. He watched the Doc walk into the hall before high-fiveing his own reflection and following.

He was excited. He'd been cooped-up in the place for what felt like months after the surgery. At first it was great, all hopped up on painkillers like he was. High as a fucking kite 24/7.

Of course, it didn't last. After a while, the Doc began to wean him off the meds. It was then that he started to go stir-crazy.

This past week in particular had been brutal. He was off the pills completely and could feel the beginnings of static starting to build up in his nerves. The sensation had him rubbing his arms and clenching his fists. It was a feeling he hadn't missed.

He tried to ignore the feeling, instead turning his attention to the shelves of junk in the hall. He wondered briefly how the Doc ever found anything in that mess. He himself was by no means organized, but this, this was just chaos.

"I've got a system." The Doc smiled, knowing what he had been thinking. "For instance," he reached for one of the upper shelves, pulling down an old wooden box, "this here is for you."

Siv took it in his hands. He'd been through just about every room in the place, having had almost nothing else to do, and he'd never seen it before. The box was composed of various pieces of wood cut into elongated diamonds and triangles, all stained various shades of cream and brown. The pieces were set together in a radial pattern that reminded him of the sun, or stars. It was worn from years of handling, its sheen long since gone, but it was still quite beautiful.

"I can't take this." He said, offering it back to the Doc. "I'm sure it's got some- sentimental value and shit." He cleared his throat and avoided eye-contact. He wasn't very good at voicing sentiments.

The Doc pushed it back towards him. "It does, but I want you to have it. Besides, you'll need what's in it."

Curious, he opened it. The lining of the container was a soft felt, not unlike that of a billiards table, though deep maroon in color. And inside were Chems, to his surprise. Mostly Stimpacks and Med-X, but a few other things as well.

He couldn't help but laugh. It was somehow odd to see the drugs tucked inside the cherished box. It was definitely the kind of shit he'd do. He looked up at the Doc and his laugh faltered. The man's expression was serious, worried.

"I ain't blind, kid." The Doc said. "I've seen those track marks on your arms - and I've noticed the missing Med-X here and there."

Siv had the decency to look embarrassed; ashamed even. He and the Doc had had many conversations while he'd been recovering. And of everything they'd talked about, his habit had never been one of them.

"I -" He began, but the Doc shook his head.

"It's alright. I'm surprised you made it as long as you did."

Siv scratched at his neck. He often regretted the things he did while in that desperate state.

"Just-" The Doc sighed. "You be careful out there. With a habit like that-"

"Don't worry, Doc." He tried to sound cheerful. "I ain't got it that bad. Just here and there. I've seen much worse." He knew it sounded lame. It was the same shit he'd spit to his pops.

But honestly, it was true, it really wasn't so bad. He was still able to work and travel and shoot straight. In his book, that meant you were good.

"I hope so."

"Thanks, Doc." He said. And he meant for more than just the sentiment, which he appreciated greatly. He meant for saving his life and taking care of him as well. "Ain't too many folks that'd do what you did for me."

"I'm a doctor; it's what I do." He paused, and grinned. "Just, try not to die again, alright?"

They exchanged grins.

"You got it, doc."


End file.
